


do not hold to the earth

by ashers_kiss



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: (just Smaug and Bolg I promise), Alternate Universe - Vikings, Battle, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Family Feels, Implied Relationships, Kidnapping, Mental Health Issues, Misgendering, Multi, Politics, Rescue Missions, Restraints, a tiny amount of, of the canon-typical variety between elves and dwarves, too much research and not enough knowledge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 14:50:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15888243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashers_kiss/pseuds/ashers_kiss
Summary: All Kili had wanted to do was talk to a pretty girl.Fili rather wishes he hadn't.  Dis doesn't know anything about it - which is probably a good thing.Or:  Viking!Durins!  Because my artist is a genius.





	do not hold to the earth

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally here! The thing that has been living in my brain all summer and never given me a moment's peace.
> 
> This was a labour of love for both me and my artist, [silverwork4furs](http://silverwork4furs.tumblr.com), so please don't hesitate to show your appreciation for the incredible work they have done on the graphics dotted throughout this fic. (It was also a bit of a labour of blood sweat and tears when AO3 decided to chew up and spit out my coding and oh, the majority of the fic, but that's neither here nor there.)
> 
>  _Huge_ thanks to my artist and the mods for all their hard work and putting up with me. Hopefully, this is worth it. ♥ Special thanks also to the friends who put up with me wailing and throwing this at them, but especially [amine-eyes](http://amine-eyes.tumblr.com) and [stripystockings](https://stripystockings.tumblr.com). *blows kisses*
> 
> Don't forget to check out the rest of the amazing fic and artwork in the TRSB18 collection! I honestly cannot wait till I have the time to sit down and devour it all.
> 
> A note on language: there is very little actual Welsh or Norse in this, aside from names. There is one sentence I got from a Welsh speaking person, so I know it's accurate, and a term I found in the plural on a Viking-specific website; I then cobbled together a singular form using a Welsh online dictionary, so god knows how accurate it is. The majority of "Norse" is khuzdul, but there is the occasional word, grabbed from that same website, or from Wikipedia. (Goddess bless Wiki.) There is possibly also an Elvish word or two in there.
> 
> A note on warnings: there is some detailed reference to Thorin's mental health, and Dis', both of which are a combination of what's shown in the films, and my own experiences; please don't be afraid to ask me about it before you read. Ditto the misgendering, it isn't done with any ill intent (beyond, y'know, dwarves and elves) but it is there, though only a confusion between dwarves and elves as happens in the films. There is a lot of canon-typical fighting, injury and one particularly gory death (Smaug's), but a) he deserves it and b) that's it.
> 
> There are also a few references to rape (again, typical to Vikings), and a few characters being held down against their will, one of which would likely have been an attempted rape, but would never have gotten that far, not in my bloody fic.
> 
> ...I swear there is a happy ending to all of this, honest!
> 
> Title from [Jesca Hoop's The Kingdom](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D_jUPk6c0OQ) ([lyrics at genius.com](https://genius.com/Jesca-hoop-the-kingdom-lyrics)), which is very much a Dis song for me.

_The Kingdom of East Anglia, near Foxley Wood._

Kili:

All Kili had wanted to do was talk to a pretty girl.  It hadn’t seemed like such a bad idea at the time.

He wouldn’t normally have gone off by himself – wouldn’t normally have had the chance.  But Fili and Sigrid were wrapped up in each other, in the warm night and the simple joy of being in each other’s presence, still not worn off after the weeks at sea, and the others were already deep in their cups, too busy trying to learn the song Bofur kept hiccupping over.  Kili had been close to joining them when he saw her, the flicker of her hair in the corner of his eye and the purpose in her stride catching at something in his chest, tugging _hard_.

He didn’t even think as he scrambled to his feet, didn’t stop to elbow Fili or whisper in Ori’s ear (wide-eyed and swaying, clutching his tankard in both hands, and still likely the least far gone of them all).  No one called out to him as he ducked round the corner, weaved through the crowded streets after her.

Through twisting Anglo streets he followed her, never able to get close enough to see more than a flash of red, of embroidered tunic, something stoppering his voice whenever he went to call out, to ask her to _wait_ – he was breathless before he realised how far he’d gone, before he noticed she’d slipped his sight again, and this time, he had no idea which turn she’d taken, no glimpse of forest green at the end of the street to carry him forward.

Then something hit him, and everything went black.

And of course, all he could think was, “Mam’s going to _kill_ me.”

When he wakes, it’s to find his hands bound above his head, his shoulders shrieking and that pretty girl dragging him along like it’s nothing.

“Ow,” Kili says, and then again, when his skull throbs in response.  _“Ow.”_   She mutters a curse and continues hauling him up what feels like a bloody _cliff_.  It takes his rattled brain a moment to realise that it isn’t in Norse, and that he knows it – of course, by that point, his fool mouth’s already opened with, “Not very nice.”

She freezes, halting suddenly enough that something very sharp and rock-like thuds in into Kili’s spine.  “Ti'n siarad Cymraeg?” she says, so stiff he’s sure she’ll break.  It’s not fear (what does she have to fear from him right now; she’s even taken his knife, he can see it tucked in her belt), but whatever it is, she holds it back with an impressive will, even after so long in his uncle’s hall.  He almost wants to see what it is she leashes so tight.

Kili gives her his best attempt at smile, despite the rocks in his back and the ache in his arms, because he’s a charming bastard, he likes to think.  He can taste copper.  “Badly,” he says, still in Cymraeg, and then, because Bilbo deserves better, “Not my teacher’s fault.”

She curses again – one of Kili’s favourites, as it happens – and reaches down to pull him to his feet.  “Then walk,” she spits, and jerks at the rope so Kili’s feet have no choice but to follow.

*

Fili:

His mother’s going to kill him.

Thor’s teeth, his mother is going to wait for his uncle to kill him, and then bring him back just so she can do it all over again herself.

“He won’t have gone far,” Sigrid says, in a way that is supposed to reassure, and all Fili can do is blink up at her, that sick, heavy feeling thick in his belly and spreading.  She smiles at him, hair gleaming in the morning light, but he knows her well enough to note the hesitancy in her words, the moment before she reaches out to press a hand to his cheek.  He still laces his fingers with hers, kisses her wrist, and her smile grows.

Waking up their first morning back in Briton to discover his brother gone had never been something Fili would have described as his worst nightmare, because the thought would never have occurred to him.  Instead, Kili’s bedroll’s untouched, his bow left by his pack, and a panic running under Fili’s skin that increased with every passing second.  It’s just about all he can do to hold on to Sigrid and breathe.

She notices, clearly.  “Ori will find him and bring him back, and we can all torment him to our heart’s content.”  It has all the weight of a promise to it, and Fili is so _desperate_ to believe – Sigrid has never once broken a promise (nor he to her, and he intends to keep it that way), and if anyone can find whatever bolthole Kili has found for himself, it’s Ori.  Ori, the least threatening of them all, to all appearances anyway, and the best scout and informer Fili’s ever known; he could hardly send anyone else out to chase down news of his brother.

Gimli grunts from the other side of the fire.  “He’ll come back when he’s hungry.  Or when he misses that bloody bow,” he says without any venom, and it’s only that which stops Fili throwing anything at him.

Bifur is not so restrained, and when Gimli yelps, Bofur winces, pulls his hat down further over his ears.  “Please stop shouting.”

“You can all be quiet,” Sigrid says before Fili can, iron in her voice that makes them all start.  Any other time, and Fili would already have his brother in a headlock to stop him digging an elbow into his side, because Kili would _know_ –

Which is when Ori reappears, and that sick feeling in Fili’s gut blooms.

*

_Norway_

Dis:

At her pace, the thick leather soles of her boots are loud against the floor, signalling her arrival and giving people plenty of time to get out of her way, no entreaties or petitions deemed quite so important as to interrupt.  The messenger is long gone, dragged off by one of her own women no doubt, and in no hurry to be part of this any longer, to deliver the news to his lord.  Dis cannot blame him for that.

The men milling around outside the hall take one look at her and pack up whatever they’ve been working on, just as eager as everyone else to be gone from whatever message she brings.  She catches the look Balin throws her as he and Dori leave, arms laden with parchment and maps – it is mostly in sympathy, but there is a warning in there too.  Dis takes a breath and prays for patience.  She has raised two boys and this very building, their family’s fortunes.  She can deal with whatever is behind that door.

Dwalin is not so subtle as his brother, catching her arm.  “I wouldn’t.”

Dwalin’s touch has never been unwelcome, but now, she bristles.  “Wouldn’t you?”

A flush rises from under his beard, but he doesn’t look away.  “Today’s a bad day.”

“It’s _always_ a bad day these days.”

“He’s grieving, Dis.”

“We’re all grieving.  But we still have our responsibilities.”  She pulls her arm free and shoves open the door.

It’s a modest hall – in rebuilding, they had decided on something less grand than the days of their father and grandfather, something smaller, more reassuring to the petitioners who came from the further reaches of the land (and most importantly, Dis always thought, _warmer_ ) – and it takes her no time to cross the floor to where her brother sits, glowering at something that may be in the distance.  On her less steady days, she isn’t quite convinced this is a good thing.

“What,” Thorin says, low and sullen in a way Dis has been familiar with since their childhood, but with a sharp edge that promises to be deadly to those stumbling too close.

Dis is familiar with that now, too.

“Smaug is pushing at the northern borders.  Again,” she adds, and Thorin finally, finally looks at her.

“Is he now,” he murmurs.  There’s a slick curl starting to the corner of his mouth that twists in her stomach.  “That worm couldn’t organise an attack on the crows in his own fields.”

“He doesn’t need to organise anything when he has Bolg leading his men.”  Bolg, barely older than her own boys, and already sworn vengeance on the entirety of the line that took his father from him (never mind that it was Azog’s own actions that had Thorin taking up arms against _him_ and a blade through his heart) – and at the head of Smaug’s army, he’s setting himself up well to do just that.  “It would be unwise to underestimate them, brother.”

Thorin shoves himself to his feet, suddenly looming, any sign of even darkest amusement wiped from his face.  Dis doesn’t blink, only raises an eyebrow.  She does well, she thinks, to not comment on the theatrics.  “You think I underestimate them?” Thorin repeats, softly, eventually, and oh, but there is that dangerous edge again.

“I think,” Dis says, her voice steadier than her insides, the fingers she twists in her skirts, “that your focus has been elsewhere.”

It’s incredible, really, how much _smaller_ Thorin suddenly seems, even under all those furs.  He blinks, rocking back half a step, then another, and when he looks at her, his eyes are wide.  “I – ”

“I know,” she says, and doesn’t mean it unkindly.  She has been there, after all, felt the dark gaping hole inside and wanted to fall apart, when the only thing keeping her together some days was Thorin’s arms around her; but she cannot afford to offer that same reprieve.  Not yet.  “But we have to act, Thorin.  Before Smaug starts razing our villages and terrorising our people.  Again.”

Thorin stares again, and whatever he sees, it looks no more pleasant than the last time.  “He thinks me weak.”

Now it is Dis’ turn to move, because this, _this_ comfort she can offer.  “Smaug is a fool,” she tells him, firm, taking hold of his arm – even under the various layers, it is like oak, tense, unyielding.  “No one else thinks that, nor have they _ever_.  Our people honour you, _trust_ you.  I have two boys who grew up wanting to be just like you, just like half the youths in the country.”  She gives him a small shake, and he sways with it.  “I can bring in Dwalin to tell you the same, or Balin or Oin, if I thought you’d listen.”

His smile, when it comes, is small and forced, but Dis feels her knees go faint for just a moment.  “Only half?” Thorin says, and Dis shakes him again, even as she can’t quite keep back the scratch of laugh that rushes out.

*

_The Kingdom of East Anglia, near Foxley Wood._

Fili:

“You don’t have to come with us,” Fili tries.  His gut feels heavy though, and something deep, deep inside – something dark, that feels familiar in a way Fili shies away from – wants him to reach out and hold her tight, to never let her go, let her far from his sight.

To never lose her, or anyone else.

Sigrid is already winding her braids up, pinning them into place.  “I know.”  She smiles at him, soft; the beads he painstakingly carved her wink at him, almost completely tucked away under the rest of her hair.  “But Kili’s to be my brother too, and I’d rather like to have him around.  Besides,” her smile curls just slightly, a hint of the mischief he will swear made him fall for her in the first place, “how on earth do you plan to find him without me?”

“Much as I hate to admit it, lad, she has a point,” Bofur offers as he passes, and Fili puts up his hands in defeat.

“I know when I’m outnumbered.”

“When has that ever stopped you before,” Sigrid asks, but she presses a kiss to his cheek and is gone before he can come up with an answer.

*

_Somewhere in Foxley Wood._

Kili:

“What’s your name?” Kili tries, after the ache in his arms has begun to ease and the swell of something approaching panic has subsided from his chest.  His wrists throb in time with his pulse, the rope rough and chafing, but he can handle it.  The same way he can handle the way the world swirls around him on occasion, the way his heart still echoes in his ears – the fact that they’re now over half a day from the town, at least, and they’ve yet to meet another soul, living or otherwise.  She’s kept them off the roads, traipsing instead through thick undergrowth like she knows exactly where her feet will fall, casting Kili dark looks every time he stumbles.

“I’m Kili,” he says when she doesn’t answer.  She ignores him this time too.

“Fine,” he grumbles, narrowly avoiding the bush he’d swear she was trying to tug him into.  “I’ll just call you Red, then.”

“No,” she says, low and sharp.  It’s all she says to him the rest of the day, no matter how many attempts, rusty Cymraeg loosening on his tongue each time.  It shouldn’t feel like such a victory.

*

Sigrid frowns over broken branches, her fingers light on the ground between her knees.  Bifur mutters something, and she nods.  “You’re right,” she says, pushing to her feet.  Her hand leaves streaks of dirt across her skirt, and Fili focuses on that, on the crease and fold of the material as she moves, rather than the words he can’t hear, _can’t_ , bile rising thick in his throat and a rushing in his ears –

“Kili was dragged,” Sigrid says, because Fili couldn’t hope to drown out her voice if he _tried_.  “To about here, but then – then he’s up on his feet, but the trail…it’s a mess.”

“A mess how?”  Gimli shifts, hand tightening on his axe like he expects to have to do battle here in these woods right now from hidden enemies.  Fili can’t really argue with the sentiment, but Sigrid only turns back to the barest traces of twisted leaves and disturbed earth, the only signs that, mere hours ago, Kili was here, was alive.

“See here – ” she points, and they can all see the tracks, the furrow of a body dragged – “and here – ” the strange sliding crush of a patch of wildflowers halfway up the hill – “anyone could follow this, but then…”  Further up the hill, and a path trekked through the forest floor that Fili would have attributed to one kind of woodland animal or another.  “It’s as though she’s started to cover their tracks, somehow,” Sigrid finishes.  She looks almost personally offended, and Fili should not be thinking about that, about how ridiculously lovely it is, not even with the smallest, most distant part of his mind.

“Witchcraft,” Gimli hisses, because he’s always been a superstitious bugger, and Bofur signs protection before the word’s even finished leaving his mouth.

But Sigrid turns her scowl on them, hands on her hips and Kili’s bow across her back like it was made to be there.  She looks, thinks that not-so-distant corner of Fili’s mind, like brightest, bravest Valkyrie, hair bound and mud on her dress, her forehead.  “No,” she says, voice firm as good steel, “she’s just _good_.”

“Can you follow them?” Fili asks.  His voice comes out thick, scraped raw; he sounds like his uncle.

Sigrid’s face softens, and this time, when she reaches out, it’s to touch the beads she made him.  “We’ll find him,” she says, almost entirely for him.  He wants nothing more than to pull her close, to press his forehead to hers for just a moment, remind himself –

But this woman has his brother, and they’ve already a whole night’s headstart.  “Then lead on,” he says, still in that voice, and the others might look at him the way people normally watch Thorin (Kili would die of laughter), but Sigrid only nods, her mouth setting into that stubborn line he knows well, before she gathers up her skirt and gestures they follow.

*

_Norway_

Dis:

“Hate to interrupt,” Dwalin says, putting his head around the door.  The look Thorin cuts him is only mildly annoyed, his trail of thoughts disrupted, and so he comes inside fully.  Dis looks down and does her best not to smile, to focus on the encroaching line of Smaug and Bolg’s forces on the map.  It’s certainly sobering enough.  “We’ve got the Bowman outside, he’s demanding an audience.”

And oh, as if the map wasn’t concerning enough.

Thorin curses in what well may be more of a growl, pushing away from the table, and Balin sighs, begins rolling up their various plans.  “You need me to stay?” he asks, but Thorin is already stalking back to his chair, his mood soured and his face dark.  Dis does not curse him, or their visitor, or men in general, and she does not rub where she can feel a headache brewing.

“No,” she tells Balin, “no, we’ll be fine, thank you.  Speak with Nori, see what he knows, and we’ll go from there.”

Balin nods, and shoots Thorin a look of his own.  “Is it worth telling you to behave?” he says in the way only the most trusted friend, only _family_ , could ever get away with.

Thorin’s shrug is tight, the set of his jaw tense and dangerous.  “I will if he will.”

“Oh, excellent,” both Dis and Balin mutter under their breaths, sharing a glance, but Balin leaves through the side door and Dis takes her place at Thorin’s side without anything else.  She does narrow her eyes at him, her own warning ( _be nice, or I will string you up by your own belt, brother mine_ ); when he smiles, it does nothing to reassure her, too slick and easy.  But she has little time to allow it much concern, not when Dwalin is leading their guest inside.

Bard Geirmundrsen walks with the confidence of a man who knows his own mind, his own heart.  […]

*

“Meet with them,” Thorin mutters.  “As if we didn’t try that before.”  He throws himself back into his chair with all the air of a sulk, but there is exhaustion in the tight corners of his eyes, the line of his shoulders.

“Might not be a bad idea,” Balin says mildly.  He shrugs when both Dis and Thorin turn to him.  “It worked last time, after all.  Of a sort.”

Dwalin snorts.  “Of a sort.  We don’t have _time_ for sorts.”

“Not if he only keeps pushing,” Thorin agrees.  He rubs a hand across his eyes and begins to slump; Dis straightens her own spine in response.  Would that he would just go to bed – more importantly, go to _sleep_ , instead of pouring over maps and treaties until dawn lurks, pacing the lengths of his chamber until breakfast.  “And I do not have the patience for diplomacy if he does.”

“Dis could go,” Dwalin says, and it’s his turn to face Dis’ glare – she opens her mouth to tell him to stop putting words in her mouth (even if he is right, even if she could go, could wrap that smug little shit up in a new agreement, a new _oath_ before the smile ever left his face), but Thorin laughs behind his hand before she has a word out.

“Aye, then he really will think me weak.”

He likely doesn’t notice, still rubbing over his eyes, but it comforts Dis somewhat to see the same concern on their cousins’ faces.  Where did this preoccupation with weakness _come_ from?  Of all the things to sink its claws into his mind, she thinks, and sniffs loudly enough to draw all their attention, and once she has it, says, “You could do a lot worse than me, Thorin Oakenshield,” with a toss of her head that would make Kili proud.  Thorin’s smile is small, but bright, so much like his old that it hurts her heart.

Dis presses forward.  She, least of any of them, can afford to wallow.  “We should go, meet with him.  Both of all, all of us,” she adds when Thorin opens his mouth to object.  “A show of force, of united strength.  He cannot break us, Thorin – we know it, Smaug will know it, and our people’s faith will be [strengthened].”

“You sound so sure,” Thorin murmurs, his gaze sliding away.

“We are sure.”  This time, it’s Dwalin who presses the point, fist to his chest as if he were about to swear fealty all over again.  Thorin’s mouth lifts, and, to relief so deep Dis can feel it in her belly, it is only a smile, a shadow of one he has given a thousand times before, but entirely _his_.  “Come out with us,” Dwalin says, fierce and proud in the middle of their hall.  “Meet the bastards and show them who they’re messing with.”

“Just maybe don’t call them bastards to their faces,” Balin adds, mild, and praise to whichever god wishes to claim it, but Thorin _laughs_.

*

_Somewhere on the journey between Foxley Wood and Gwent._

Kili:

It’s bloody _cold_ at night now he’s no longer knocked out, no matter how much he burrows into the roots of the tree she left him tied to.  Kili tucks his hands further into his sleeves and wishes he’d at least had the sense to grab his cloak before he decided to go following strange women into the unknown.

He scowls at her, lying a few yards away at the base of another tree, but either she doesn’t notice or she really is asleep.

…She might be asleep.  Kili tugs at his bonds carefully, feeling for any give, anything he can work to his advantage – if he can just get away from the tree, he can figure out the rest, he can make his way to the road, there must be one around here somewhere –

“Don’t,” she says, low, all without opening her eyes, and Kili flops back against the trunk with a huff.

“Worth a try,” he offers; she only snorts and tucks her own cloak tighter around herself.

*

Fili:

“Go rest,” Bofur tells him, clapping a hand to his shoulder.  “You’re no good to us or your brother dead on your feet.”  He softens it with a smile, big enough to still be seen under the moustache, but the grip on his shoulder, pointedly guiding him to where the bedrolls have been laid, reminds Fili exactly why his uncle prefers Bofur on guard duty.

In the end, Fili nods – he can barely keep his eyes open, though he has his doubts about how much he’ll sleep.  Bofur beams at him, but he also waits until Fili lies himself down next to Sigrid before resuming his watch.

For a while, Fili stares at the canopy above them, listens to Gimli’s snore and Ori’s wheeze, the little breaths Sigrid stutters over in her dreams, and waits for sleep to take him, for his eyes to _stay_ closed.  Eventually though, he rolls on to his side – even without the fire they dared not light, with no moon, Sigrid’s hair glows, a much more reassuring sight than swaying leaves too far above his head, strange stars occasionally glimpsed behind thick cloud.

But even in sleep, she looks exhausted, a day of tracking over unfamiliar land taking its toll – Fili reaches out to touch, to smooth the shadows beginning under her eyes, because this was never how he wanted her first trip to Briton to go, when she shifts, curls closer to him and settles with her face against his throat, sighing almost happily.  Fili freezes for a moment, before he lowers his hand, wraps his arm over her back and pulls her closer still, playing with the ends of her braid.

He sleeps like that, and when he wakes, it’s to Sigrid’s smile and the sun peaking red through the trees.

*

Kili:

“Where are we going?” Kili asks.  His toes catch on a root, and he only saves himself from falling by wrenching his shoulders in the other direction.

“Be quiet!” she snaps.

“No.”  It’s probably a lot harsher than Bilbo ever intended, but in this instance, Kili feels confident that he would understand.  “Tell me.”

She ignores him, only tugging on the rope, and Kili spends precious moments wracking his memory for anything else he can use.  Then she pulls hard, dragging him to his knees – landing with an “oof!” that takes all his air – before gesturing furiously for him to follow her to the underside of the embankment.  Kili thinks about refusing, about throwing his weight back and pulling her down with him, enough that she might finally – but there are voices above them, and none of them sound pleased.

“Yours?” he breathes once he’s crawled under the edge with her, shoulder to muddy shoulder.  She shakes her head, but it’s hard to tell if it’s an answer or not.

No, of course not, that’s not Cymraeg, that’s – at best guess, one of the few dialects Bilbo _didn’t_ know, similar enough to the others to just slide out of Kili’s reach.  She puts her finger to lips, and for once, Kili’s inclined to agree.  (He nods, just so that’s clear.)

They wait until the voices move away, and she immediately breathes easier, crawling backwards and tugging on Kili’s rope as she stands.  They walk in silence though, neither keen to attract that kind of attention, and Kili doesn’t start to relax until he sees her shoulders ease.

That was probably the first mistake.

He crashes into her moments later, because she’s stopped, frozen in place, head turned like she hears something and still ramrod straight even after Kili’s all but knocked her off her feet.  He’s about  to ask her what it is, but then he hears it too:  footsteps.  Running footsteps.

She curses, drops Kili’s rope to draw her sword, and her timing couldn’t be better because almost immediately there’s four of them jumping off the embankment – one smashes an elbow into Kili’s jaw before he can do anything, and while his head’s still spinning she shoves him out the way, arrow in her free hand and quick into the unprotected throat of his assailant.

Kili shakes his head, stars still dancing in his eyes and she trips another before he can take another step towards Kili, baring her teeth when he brings his sword up to crash with hers.  Kili’s feet and steady though, of a sort, and there’s that itch in his shoulders, his palms for his bow, to throw himself into this until not a one’s left standing.  (Somewhere, his mother’s rolling her eyes, saying, “Bloody Dwalin.”)

“Cut me loose,” he tells her, and she runs that one through.  Kili pulls at the rope again – again, to no joy – as the final two round on them.  “Throw me the knife, quick!”

“If you think I’m giving you a weapon,” she says, the look over her shoulder dismissive, incredulous as her words, “you’re mistaken.”

Kili growls, tight through his teeth, but then he has to duck an oncoming sword, ends up on his back and rolls to avoid the next swing.  She’s there in a heartbeat, the arrow she’d been readying through a gap in padded armour instead, and Kili crawls, bunched on his hands and knees like some kind of animal.

There’s a glimmer, a fallen sword in the undergrowth – Kili’s on it before he can think, sawing at his bindings.  He can still hear her behind him, occupied with the last of them, and there’s a voice in his head telling her he can’t leave her, who knows how many others there might be out there, but right now he’s more concerned with getting _away_ , what might be his one chance.  The rope frays and falls, and he’s on his feet, wincing as his wrists throb with renewed vigour, but he’s got to move, he’s got 

He's taken all of three steps before she tackles him, pins him to the ground and wrenches one arm behind his back, scrabbling for the other.  Kili yells, frustration bubbling up in his gut and thick on his tongue, and he kicks, throwing them both to the side and knocking her off hard enough that she makes a noise when she hits the ground.  It doesn’t stop her though, and she’s back on him before he can do more than raise both arms, a knee in his stomach and his own knife at his throat.

Kili freezes.  They’re both breathing hard, and he can feel the knife edge scrape with every inhale, though her hand is steady.  In the gloom, her eyes are bright, _alive_ , and despite himself his belly swoops enthusiastically.  This close, they are a vivid, vibrant green, little flecks of gold that remind him of sunlight on leaves.

“Don’t make me cut you,” she warns, eventually.  Kili lowers his hands.

Later, once he’s been tied again and she’s checked their attackers for anything of use, hidden away coins and stashed the occasional flint in her bag, he watches her drag them all to lie side by side, arms crossed in a manner he’s seen on Christian statues.  She closes their eyes and makes a sign with her hand he doesn’t see fully.

“Would it be easier to let me?” he says later still, once the embankment is long behind them and the little light there is starting to dim.

She doesn’t answer.

*

“Does it hurt?” she asks later, once she’s passed over the night’s bread and cheese.  When Kili looks up, she waves at her own jaw, and Kili grins, stretching already-stiff skin.

“Like hell,” he says.  She only looks down at the food in her lap.

*

He lies awake shivering for most of the night again, until there is, at some point, a huff, something thick and warm thrown over him and an even warmer body pressed to his back.  “Don’t get any ideas,” she says low in his ear.  “Can’t have you freezing to death before we get there.”  And Kili knows he should be questioning, asking where “there” is again, but honestly, he’s too warm and smiling too hard to care.

*

Fili:

The sun’s almost at its highest when they discover the bodies, laid out like they’re waiting for the ground to swallow them in those little mounds Christians prefer.  Almost as one, Gimli and Bofur make signs of protection in front of them, while Bifur prowls around them, slowly, careful, checking the wounds.  Bile rises acrid and burning in Fili’s throat, washes across his tongue, and he focuses on the way Sigrid frowns, her eyes tracking across the ground, and not the arrow sticking from a purpling throat.

“We have to move,” Sigrid says, gathering up her skirt and practically marching up the slight incline of a hill.  “Fili – _Fili_.”

“Coming,” he murmurs, and tears his eyes away from the twist of rope, kicked back and abandoned.

*

Kili:

They walk for days, and Kili – Kili talks for practically every mile.  It’s maybe not his wisest idea, not after that kind of ambush – Dwalin did always say his mouth was going to get him into trouble one day.  (Dis used to smack him over the head for it, telling him to watch his mouth around her son, but alone, after, she’d look worried, ask him to watch his own mouth and stop being so reckless all the time.  Maybe that was why she’d given him the runestone and not Fili.)  And she never responds, not in the first few days, but Kili catches the curve of a smile, sometimes, behind the fall of her hair, and it’s enough.

They’ve stopped to eat when she finally says something back, more than directions and directives; it’s more bread and cheese, the portions getting smaller each time, but there’s apples Kili found hanging the other day, an early harvest he thanks Iðunn for (and again, when he takes his first bite and they’re sweet and sharp).

“Where did you learn Cymraeg?”

Kili’s gotten quite good at eating without hitting himself in the face, but at the sound of her voice, his bound hands bang into his nose instead, and he swallows so hard it hurts, choking only slightly.  She watches him without moving, without saying anything else, and Kili has to clear his throat before he can speak, eyes watering.  “Uh.”  He coughs again, and this time, she lifts an eyebrow.  “My uncle had a – a friend, from Briton.  He taught us.”

“A slave?” Fuck, but that’s a lot of ice shot through her voice, throwing him right back to that first morning, to screaming joints and words spat like venom.  Kili shakes his head.

“No!  No, he was – he was a traveller, a scholar.  Used to be a monk or something, I think.  He _liked_ teaching us, Odin only knows why.”

(“What is the point,” Thorin had asked, arms crossed over his chest and looking anywhere else, “of them learning any of this?”

Kili had looked up in time to catch Bilbo’s smile, bright and daring, with an edge that reminded him of one of the knives Fili had started using.  “What was the point of my learning Norse?”)

She nods slowly, then – “He taught you well,” she says, before getting to her feet and walking the perimeter she’s decided on for tonight.  It’s the last thing she says all night, but it burrows its way under Kili’s skin, warming enough that he almost doesn’t need her cloak that night.

*

The next time, it’s his opinion on the best fletching, hesitant, like she can’t really believe the words are coming out of her mouth.  (Kili has no such problem, as Fili or Ori or Gimli or _anyone_ could have told her.  He does so himself, when he pauses for breath, and is rewarded with another one of those hidden smiles.)

Then, “You aren’t struggling as much.”

Kili shrugs and sidesteps a root.  There’s a knack to walking over the kind of rough terrain she seems to prefer, especially without his hands.  “Doesn’t seem much point.  We’ll get there soon enough, and I’ll find out all about it.  Besides,” he waits until the ground has levelled out for a patch to look up and give her his best smile, “you’d only catch me again.”

He’s not quite sure he didn’t dream up the flush that rises over her cheekbones before she spins away.

*

“What is that?” she asks that night, nothing but curiosity in her voice, and Kili can feel his mouth curl almost completely without any of his say.

“Would you believe,” he says, curling his fingers around his mother’s runestone, “that it’s a talisman, laid with a heavy spell to curse all those not of the line of Durin who look upon it?”

He has learned to read her silences, he thinks, so much that he can almost feel the incredulity of her look, and he laughs, rolling on to his back.  “It was a gift,” he tells her, and lifts both hands (not that he has much choice) to let her see in the light of the stars, strong enough in the clear skies for once to make their way through the trees.  “A token from my mother.”  The light catches the edges of the runes Dis would have carved herself, and for a moment, Kili’s chest, his whole being _aches_ for her.  For her to hold him tight as she used to when he was a child, as she did before they set sail.  To breathe in the smell of her hair, the mix of her oils and the woodsmoke of his uncle’s hall, and know he is home.  It is harder than he would like to get the next words out.  “A reminder, that I promised – I promised to come back to her.”

The silence at his side is harder to understand this time, and honestly, Kili is not so focused on that right now.  Then she touches his wrist above the rope, soft, hesitant again, and Kili nods, swallows, drops the stone into her hand because he can’t manage the words.

She lifts it higher than his bound arms can manage, tilting it this way and that in the starlight, her thumb smoothing along the edge like she’s trying to memorise it.  And Kili – Kili still can’t say anything, can’t explain to her what the runes mean, tell her how many gods Dis invoked on his behalf or how long this must have taken her.

“It’s beautiful,” she says eventually, before bringing the stone back to him.  She lays it in his palm and closes both his hands around it, her own hand resting over his for a beat, then another.  “She loves you very much.”

“Yeah,” Kili manages, and she lets go of his hand.

*

“I know some Norse,” she says the next day, and Kili stumbles.

“I – you what?” he stutters, very intelligently, and her grin is practically _wicked_ , for all it’s barely there, and in the bright sunlight he’d swear her eyes sparkle.

“I’ve been to Jorvik, many times.  We had to learn some to do any business.”

“Is that so,” Kili murmurs in his own tongue – and gods above, it feels strange and _good_ in his mouth, a welcomed weight after the airy curls of Cymraeg for so many days – and laughs when she flushes again, a light pink that’s still enough to drown out her freckles.  “Oh, this is going to be _fun_ ,” he says, switching back to Cymraeg, and her smile is much more shy than before, but he can feel something in his chest soften.

(He is not a good a teacher as Bilbo, but she is a much better student than he ever was.)

*

Fili:

“Remind me,” Gimli grumbles, wading out of yet _another_ stream that was deeper than it looked, “when we catch them, to ring _both_ their necks for this.”  Fili can’t blame him; he doesn’t think his feet have been dry for two days.

Bofur tsks, even as he’s ringing out his hat.  “Poor attitude for a sailor, my lad.”  Gimli growls at him, while Bifur shoves his shoulder, but in all honesty, Fili’s not sure what they would have done without such comments.  He knows he would have driven Sigrid mad, at any rate.

Speaking of – she comes back through the trees, Ori at her side, and they look…tired, bedraggled, much the same as the rest of them, Fili imagines, but they’re smiling.  “We found a place to camp,” Sigrid tells him.

“Somewhere _dry_ ,” Ori adds, with all the weariness of someone done with lifting their parchment-filled pack over their head for the day, and that, that does bring a smile to Fili’s face.

“Then lead on,” he tells him, and catches Sigrid’s hand when she holds it out.

*

Kili:

“You still haven’t told me your name,” he points out to her, after so many hours of going back and forth, his native tongue twisting through the night like a chained dog set free.  There’s something in that, he thinks, and gives her his brightest, most charming smile.  “Kind of hard to teach you the basics without it.”

She rolls her eyes, and he barely has time to duck before his dinner hits the tree behind him.  “Eat your cheese,” she says in Norse, her accent atrocious, and Kili laughs.

*

_Norway, towards the end of Durin land_

“I don’t like this,” Dwalin mutters, low enough that only Dis can hear him over the beat of hooves.

“Nor do I,” she admits, just as low – lower, even, when Thorin sends a dark look their way.  “But it is Smaug’s right.”  She gies her horse further, faster, pulling in at Thorin’s side and ignoring his glare.  It has very little to do with her, she knows, and almost everything to do with Smaug’s preferred meeting place.

Smaug himself has set up camp just outside a valley on the very edge of their land, a mere mile from the latest village he’s chosen to terrorise.  As they ride closer, Dis’ eye is drawn over and over again down into the valley, where new grass and wildflowers sway in the breeze, where the uneven ground seems just a charming quirk, some fancy of Jörð’s.

Where Dis and Thorin lost both Frerin and their grandfather in one fell swoop.

*

_Near the Gwent border, the Kingdom of Mercia_

She’s quieter the next day, warier, and it doesn’t help the itch between his shoulder blades.  He keeps closer to her, the rope loose enough between that Kili has to gather it up in his hands, while she plays with her end, fingers tapping, worrying the fray, her other hand straying to her sword with worrying frequency.  Kili moves closer, shoulder to shoulder again, close enough that she’ll hear his, “What is it?”

She doesn’t answer for long enough he starts to think she won’t, her eyes darting everywhere – the trees rise on either side of them, thick with summer foliage and hiding places enough for – Kili doesn’t really want to think about it.  “We’re nearing the border,” she whispers, eventually, head tilted towards his as she never stops looking, never stops moving.  Kili finds himself doing the same.  “The Mercian king…does not get on well with ours.  There are often patrols.”

“Right,” Kili says; he doesn’t even really need to ask how badly “not well” is.  He’s seen his uncle’s face whenever Smaug’s name is mentioned.

(There’s a part of his mind that stumbled, has found itself stuck on one particular point, even as he does his best to stamp it down, because – because _Mercia_?  The Mercian _border_?

He’s never been so far west before.)

They spend the next mile or so in silence, wincing every time a branch cracks under their feet, a bird screams in the trees.  That itch has spread down Kili’s spine, into his limbs, his fingers, twitching for the soft fletch of an arrow between them without his permission.

Then –

“Get behind me,” she tells him, and Kili’s already moving before he thinks about it –

They burst through the trees, roaring at them, swords drawn and battle streaked across their faces.  She takes down two with her bow before Kili can blink, but this is more than a patrol, more than a small band of wayward knights, there has to be at least twenty, thirty of them, even she can’t take them all.

Kili keeps his back to hers, moving with her as she swings, the grace in her shooting almost taking his breath away more than the speed they’re moving at.  “Cut me loose,” he says again, pleads.  She slings back her bow and draws her sword.  _“Amrâlimê, please!”_

She cuts him a startled look, but then his knife is in her hand, blade through his rope before she presses it into his hand and says, “Don’t die,” before _launching_ herself into the Mercians’ midst, and Kili barely has a chance to stare after her before there’s one coming at him, sword and shield in prime position, and all Kili has is a knife and a tangle of rope.

It takes some work, but he manages to trip the Mercian with feet tangled in the rope, do enough damage with his knife to steal both sword and shield, and then Kili bares his teeth and throws himself in after her, yelling one of his favourite war cries at the top of his lungs.

Fili:

“Did you hear that?” Fili says suddenly.  It’s not so much a sound – how to explain the haunting shudder of his bones, the ringing of familiarity, of _home_ in his head – but he strains his ears for it anyway, stepping in the direction he could swear whatever it was came from.

As one, Sigrid and Ori look at each other before dropping, ears pressed to the ground while the others hold still, hardly daring to breathe.

“Less than half a day,” Ori says, finally, and Fili’s gut swoops.  _So close._   “Thirty, forty maybe.”

“And horses,” Sigrid adds.  She frowns, shifts like she’s trying to press herself closer to the earth, already flush.  “Further, but – but coming this way.”  She lifts her head, looks at Fili with dirt on her face, leaves in her hair and blue eyes wide.  “We need to hurry.”

*

Kili:

It’s strangely like that first night again, the glimpses of rich green, of her hair out the corner of his eye.  But this time his blood runs wild for different reasons, his lungs ache and his limbs relish the movement, and Kili can’t stop grinning.

“Don’t get cocky,” she calls to him at one point; he yells “Never!” back in Norse, and listens for her laugh.

They take quite a few of them down, and Kili thinks maybe, maybe – then there’s a thud, a noise like all the air knocked from your body, and when he turns, she’s the one been tripped, a Mercian holding down her arms while another looms over her and her chest heaves, even as she tries to kick out.

Later, Kili can’t remember thinking about it.  Can’t remember doing it, really.  The next thing he’s sure of is throwing himself into the one standing over her, sword buried in his side and the scream in his ear as the Mercian falls, bleeds like a stuck pig.  There are noises of pain behind him, not hers, _not hers_ , Kili knows that, but it still doesn’t stop him from trying to turn, and the dying Mercian takes him down with a grip on his ankle, so that he knocks his head against something hard.

When the colours have stopped swimming – his mother is _definitely_ going to kill him – she’s at his side, hand pressed to his face while a noise echoes in his ears.  It takes him a moment to realise it’s not just in his own head, that the woods are full of it, and the Mercians are running.  He drops back with a huff, wincing when it shakes everything in his head again.  “All because I wanted to talk to a pretty girl,” he murmurs, letting his eyes fall closed.

He can feel her start, her hand jerking on his cheek.  “You – you wanted to _talk_ to me?” she says.  She sounds…incredulous, stilted, and Kili forces his eyes open.  She looks – pale.  She looks pale.  “You weren’t – you weren’t trying to steal me away?”

He can’t help himself, the idea would have been hilarious, even before he knew her.  “Who on earth told you that?” he chokes, still laughing, and she presses her lips together so hard they turn as pale as the rest of her.  He reaches up – he’s not sure what he plans on, but she shouldn’t look so _serious_ – and she catches his hand, lowers her head to put her mouth to his ear.

“My name is Tauriel,” she whispers in Norse, and Kili’s entire being floods with light.

The noise sounds again, a horn, he thinks, and Tauriel – Tauriel, Tauriel, _Tauriel_ , he runs it sound and round his mind, mouths it, familiarises himself with the flowing shapes of it, of her _name_ – sits up suddenly; he can’t quite make himself do the same, but eventually there are footsteps, and she says, “My lord Legolas,” more formal than he’s heard in days.

“We received your message,” this new person says, and Kili struggles to sit up.  There’s a curl of distaste in the next words, the kind Bilbo sure as hell never included in their lessons.  “So this is the _diafol du_.”

“He helped me,” Tauriel says, getting to her feet.  “When the Mercians attacked – ”

“I’m sure that will be taken into account,” the new person, Legolas, says – Kili squints; tall, taller than him, he thinks, and very, very blond – and gestures.  Then there are hands on Kili, multiple people he can’t see, it hurts his head too much to turn, but he fights it, kicking, throwing his arms out in the way Dis taught him when he was young, but there’s too many of them, their grip tight and their rope rougher, tighter than Tauriel’s.  They wedge a gag around his mouth, knotted painful in his hair, and the last thing he sees before they tie something over his eyes the same way is Tauriel stepping forward, hand going to her sword before Legolas catches her wrist.

“We brought you a horse,” is the last thing he hears before his mind gives up, lets the darkness of the blindfold take him over as his head throbs and he slips away into the black.

_Tauriel, Tauriel, Tauriel…_

*

_Norway, towards the end of Durin land_

She does her very best not to stare, but honestly, did he bring a _throne_?  With _gold_?

 _Their_ gold, a sly voice whispers in her ear.  Durin gold, stolen from their land, their people.  _Theirs._

Dis shifts, tilts her head in an effort to dislodge whatever sprite has decided to amuse itself with her, and Smaug, lounging on his throne, grins.  Dis does not glare, but only because Thorin is doing more than enough of that for both of them.

The entirety of Smaug’s tent is a testament to his riches, bright silks lining the walls and precious metals glinting, even around his neck, at his belt.  But the bench he bade them sit on is bare, just far enough away from the low table full of food that they would have to stretch, low enough that even from his slouch Smaug can look down on them.  For their part, Dwalin’s hand is fisted tight around his hilt, and Thorin’s jaw grows tighter, his face darker with every insult.

(Worse still is Balin left outside, because – as Smaug was happy to highlight – one guard each was plenty enough, surely?  He’d watched both her cousins swallow being called guard with a keen eye, so much that Dis wondered if he’d noticed the narrow look from his own so-called guard, tucked in the shadows.)

“Eat, please,” Smaug says with a lazy wave of his hand, as if it matters not to him.  Thorin’s head moves in the barest estimation of a nod.

“Our thanks,” he grits, “but we ate already.”

Smaug shrugs, settling further back into his seat before his eyes settle firmly on Dis.  “So,” he says, and it is almost a _purr_ , sending icy shivers racing down Dis’ spine.  “You came to talk.”  Dis opens her mouth.  “To beg us to retreat and ignore our rightful claim.”

Well, fuck.

“You have no claim to this land,” Thorin growls; Dis sends up a quick prayer that he ignores the begging part.  “We established this.  Years ago.”

“You berated and twisted a young boy into renouncing his claim – ”

“You were not so young,” Dis snaps.  In her dreams – her nightmares – she still sees him as he was, pale-faced and stick-armed, but strong enough to wield his weapons.  Strong enough to run Frerin through when he tried to aid their father, old enough to look at her over her brother’s body and _smile_.

The grin he gives her now isn’t so very different.  “And here I thought you’d forgotten about me,” he says softly, and Dis wishes, in that moment, for her axe.

“Your father,” Thorin says, spitting the words like an affront as his hand takes Dis’ under their cloaks, “had no claim.  Your grandfather renounced his claim of his own free will, and left you with plenty of land in the north.”  He doesn’t say, so take your arse back there, you _fucker_ , but it hangs in the air anyway.

“And what about my father?”

Smaug raises his hand, gestures.  “You remember my general, Bolg.”  His smile has turned sharp – for one sickening, dizzying moment, Dis sees the same curve that has haunted Thorin’s face these last months.  She grips her brother’s hand tighter, feels her nails dig into skin and reminds herself he is here, he is _here_ , beside her, fighting for their people.  Thorin doesn’t even wince.

“Azog killed our grandfather without mercy,” he tells Bolg.  “He defiled his body and left not even enough for us to send to the gods.”

“My father,” Bolg hisses, stepping into the light for the first time, and oh, he’s barely older than Fili, “died like an animal, screaming in pain and cursing your name, and your whole filthy lineage.”

“If you’re looking for an apology, you’ll be waiting a long time,” Thorin says, and Smaug bursts out laughing.  Bolg turns on him with a snarl, reaching for his sword, but Smaug waves him off.

“You see,” he chokes, “as I told you.  Remorseless, defiant – ”

“You’re one to talk about remorse.”  Dis is proud of herself that it comes out level, not the scream tearing at her throat.  “We won, we won our land and _still_ you followed us, still you – ”  Here, she is the one who chokes, because how can she possibly put everything into words?  How can she even begin to describe the despair, the desolation he’d caused when he burned their home to the ground, killed their wounded father in his bed and sent their mother after him not two months later?  When Vili had borne the scars till the end of his days, when Balin still flinches at the crack of firewood.  When Thorin still, _still_ blames himself for not catching the little snake –

She feels Dwalin at her back, Thorin’s hand holding on to hers just as tight, and takes a breath.  “Even now, you feel no shame.”

Again, Smaug shrugs, wiping his eyes, but Bolg says, “Better that than to come from a line of liars, thieves and murderers – ”

“You’re not wearing so much armour I can’t still rip out your tongue, boy,” Thorin warns.  Bolg bares his teeth at him.

Smaug pushes himself to his feet; it makes Dis’ spine scream to have to look up at him, but both she and Thorin remain sitting.  “We seem to have gotten a little off track,” he says, as if they were merely discussing the milk trade.  “So much killing, so much arguing,” he directs that sharp grin back at Dis, “when we all know there’s such a simple answer – ”

There’s the barest breath of air in her hair, a whistle by her ear, and suddenly, the point of Dwalin’s favourite axe is flush with Smaug’s throat as he says, “Take another step, I dare you.”

A moment, another, while Dis’ breath is caught somewhere in her chest and Bolg darts glances between Dwalin and Smaug, as if trying to figure out who he can get to first.  Figuring out whether he _wants_ to.  She daren’t look at Thorin, daren’t move, caught between watching Bolg and Smaug as Dwalin’s aim never wavers and Thorin doesn’t let go of her hand.

Eventually, Smaug says, “I think this little meeting is over, Oakenshield, don’t you?”

“Long since,” Thorin agrees, and Dis would laugh if they were anywhere else.  In one swift movement they have been practicing since they were children, they are on their feet, Dwalin’s axe lifted, and out of the tent before anyone can say much else.  “Keep close,” Thorin says, quiet, tucking Dis’ whole arm against his side, and it’s only then she realises how badly she shakes.

Behind them, they can hear Bolg calling his men to arms.

*

_Near the Gwent border, the Kingdom of Mercia_

“Does anyone else feel like we’ve been here before?” Bofur asks, but his eyes are sharp, and like the rest of them he has weapons drawn.  And Fili can’t quite argue with him, but there are differences – there are more bodies, this time, and they’ve been left where they fell.

“This was an ambush,” Fili says, because what else could it be, so many against two (and one of them bound)?  Even he can make out the footprints of more than have been slain here, flattened grass and disturbed ground, the sliding smudges against the rise as they ran.

“He’s not here,” Bifur says – it shouldn’t be so much of a surprise, but Fili can feel it quicken his breath, feel _hope_ curl dangerous under his skin – and Sigrid responds with, “Neither is she.”  When Fili turns to her, she kicks something towards him.  Another twist of rope, cut clean.  “She set him free,” she says, and that hope is so thick in Fili’s throat he could choke on it, worse still when she adds, “They fought together,” reaching out to lace her fingers with his.  It’s calming, her skin against his; a reminder.  _We’ll find him_.

“Then where are they?”  Gimli’s full of bluster, like he has been, like Kili being stolen from them is only a mild inconvenience he’s going to kick his arse for, but it’s starting to crack, a fine thread of worry through his words as his brows draw together.  Sigrid looks to Ori, who nods, as if confirming suspicions.  Fili only holds on to her tighter.

“There were others,” Sigrid says, her eyes back on those signs she sees best, darting between the ground, the lower branches surrounding them.  “They came later – less of them fought, and then they left.  Quickly.”

“The horses.”  Fili means it to be a question, but there’s that certainty again.  Sigrid shoots him a quick smile, and even here, in the midst of all this death, this whole _mess_ , Fili feels her approval wind around his spine to purr warm and content in his belly.

“They went west,” Ori says, breaking the quiet spell; Fili holds back a sigh, presses a kiss to Sigrid’s fingers.  “Then we go west,” he says, and releases her.  She gifts him another one of those smiles, one for him to tuck away deep and secret and just for him, and flies off to join Ori, to lead them onward.

Gimli hangs back, falls into step beside him as they follow, and elbows him lightly.  “I know I’ve said this before,” he mutters, “but you have a damn fine lady there.”

Fili doesn’t take his eyes off Sigrid’s head, bent close with Ori’s as they plan their next move.  “I know.”

*

( _An aside:_

“So we’re not telling him about Kili falling?” Ori says, barely enough to disturb the hair by her ear.  Sigrid closes her eyes for a brief, brief moment.

“No,” she says eventually, after a breath.  “There was no blood.  I won’t – I can’t kill that hope in him, Ori.  Not without reason.”)

*

_The Kingdom of Gwent, Goldcliff_

Kili:

Kili comes to already cursing – his head feels like Thor took his hammer to it, and then Dwalin followed suit after, he’s lying on a cold stone floor, and his hands are _fucking_ bound again – when a voice he’s never heard before drawls, “Oh good.  The _diafol du_ is awake.”

“People keep calling me that,” Kili mutters in Cymraeg, managing a shoving roll that lands him on his back.  Even with his eyes closed, the bright light of whatever room he’s in is _blinding_.

There’s a distinct air of shock, almost _reproach_ , and he can’t keep the smirk off his face.  “Aye,” he says, “the _diafol du_ understands every word you’re saying.”

“Not _every_ word, I presume,” the voice says in near-prefect Norse, and _that’s_ enough to make Kili open his eyes.

The man who stands over him is resplendent in gold-edged red, and the same kind of very, very blond as the one in the woods.  It kind of hurts to look at him, though that might be the gold on his head, the golden goblet in his hand, and the amount of candles in this little room.  Someone, Kili thinks, wanted to put on a show.  This man has elegance and grace dripping from every line of his body, and Kili doubts it’s an act, but he also doubts there’s this much gold in Odin’s own hall.

He shoves himself up on his hands, lets them take his weight while his vision swims again, and says, “I guess you’re in charge around here,” in his own tongue.

The man – king, he’s clearly a king – inclines his head.  “You may know me as Thranduil, King of Gwent.”

“Never heard of you,” Kili says, cheerful as he can manage even as the name niggles at something in some long-forgotten corner of his memory.  There’s something breathily humble about the way Thranduil declared his title, something that sets Kili’s teeth on edge.  He pushes himself to standing, which isn’t as difficult with his hands bound as it would have been a week ago.  Although Tauriel was definitely nicer about tying him up.

At the thought of Tauriel, his mind stutters to a halt, and Thranduil quirks an eyebrow.  Kili’s mouth fills with her name, and he has to swallow once, twice, to clear it (he can’t see her, not a single flicker of her hair in any corner of the room – ) before he can say, “Since we’re doing manners…”  He does the best bow he can manage, though his mother and Balin would probably still be ashamed.  “Kili Vilisen, at your service.”

He looks up in time to watch something in Thranduil’s face sharpen, there for only a split second before the bored, almost-placid mask drops back into place.  Thranduil hums, settling himself back into the – oh, Kili wants to _laugh_ – the gold-edged throne behind him and watching Kili over the rim of his goblet as he drinks.  “Where do you hail from, Kili Vilisen?” he asks, lingering pointedly on his father’s name in a way that makes Kili uneasy.

He shrugs.  “Here and there.”

“I see.”  The King of Gwent leans forward in his seat, and Kili feels – pinned.  He would turn and checked behind him for a guard with something pointy, if he thought he could move.  “And what brings you _here_ , Kili Vilisen?  To _my_ land?”

There’s an edge to his voice, something rich and deadly, the kind of voice he’s used to people trembling under, and so Kili doesn’t say anything about being dragged there.  “Just wanted to see Briton is all.”

“Is all.”  Thranduil sits back suddenly, releasing Kili from his gaze, and he can breathe again.  In an instant, his face darkens.  “I do not believe that is all, Kili Vilisen.  I believe you and your band are here to do what the _dieifyl du_ always do – take whatever you want, whenever you want, however you want.  To steal our women, our riches, to raze our fields and plunder our homes.  To kill our warriors and laugh about it, drink their blood and sing glory to your heathen gods.”  His voice rises with every word, louder and louder until Kili’s ears ring with it, until every corner of this small room shakes, and if his hands weren’t bound he’d cover his ears.

“No,” he shouts back, over even more nonsense, “no, that’s – we’ve never – will you _stop_?”

“Would you like me to?” Thranduil asks, suddenly silky and almost silent compared to the deafening roar of before.  He doesn’t sound any the worse for it.  “Would you like me to stop reminding you of these truths of my own will, because you asked me so nicely, or would you rather run me through with a sword in my gullet just to make me shut up?”

Kili stares.  “You’re mad,” he says, and Thranduil shrugs, languid, as if he never raged enough to make the walls shudder.

“If you say so.  But I know what the _dieifyl du_ are like.  Oh, I’m sure you told Tauriel a pretty tale of honour and decency, but here, we are well acquainted with your true ways.”

“Strange, for a king who speaks perfect Norse,” Kili spits.  Again, Thranduil’s face darkens, and Kili braces for the level of noise as before.

Instead, Thranduil calls out in Cymraeg, a word Kili doesn’t recognise, and before he can blink guards are through the door and taking hold of his arms, again.  He’s becoming disturbingly accustomed to this, he thinks, even as he tries to shove them off.  “You will rot, Kili Vilisen,” Thranduil says, still in Cymraeg, and when Kili looks back at him his mouth curls, satisfied for reasons Kili could never imagine.  “You will never see the sky again, and you will serve as a warning to the rest of your heathen brethren.”

“Call me heathen _one more time_ – ” Kili snarls, but Thranduil waves him off, that bored mask back in place, and the guards drag Kili away, out the room and down, down down down until the door clangs shut on him.

*

Tauriel:

“I want to know everything the _diafol du_ told you,” Thranduil says, and Tauriel blinks.

“He – he didn’t really tell me anything.”  And while it isn’t entirely true, it is not a complete lie.  Besides, what could her king want to know of the runestone Kili’s mother carved him, about his teachers, the games he played with his brother and cousins as a child?

Behind his father, on the other side of the table, Legolas swallows.  “Stop tormenting her, Ada.  Come eat,” he tells her, and Tauriel’s stomach quivers at the sight of so much food – nearly a full week on nothing but bread and cheese and the occasional apple, and less than she had planned given it had to sustain both of them – but she shakes her head even before she notices Thranduil’s narrowed eyes.

“I will make my report,” she says instead, and Thranduil rolls his eyes.

“Hardly much point in that if he told you nothing of use.”  From anyone else, Tauriel would describe it as a grumble.  She thinks it, anyway, and watches as her king picks at the meat on his plate, nibbling where he may.

“If I may,” she starts, and if she hadn’t been so used to it over the years, both their gazes fixed on her would be…unnerving.  “What is to become of him?”

Thranduil’s mouth quirks.  “You were right,” he says over his shoulder.  “She has grown fond.”

“Hardly,” she makes herself bite out, forces her back straighter and her knees firmer.  Thranduil only raises another eyebrow.  “But it is my capture.  I have the right to know.”

Her king hums, picking over his food again, popping a berry into his mouth.  Legolas meets her eyes over the table, pulls a face at his father’s dramatics, but Tauriel’s mouth is too dry to respond.  “He will be made an example of,” Thranduil says eventually, almost casually as he inspects an apple.  “A warning to the rest of his kin, that to cross Gwent is to spend eternity in our dungeons.  Especially poignant, I think, given his brother will no doubt come after him.”

The thought lights up Tauriel’s mind – of course, of _course_ , because every second breath Kili had drawn had been his brother’s name, every story had featured them together, woven thick as the branches of her favourite trees.  “Of course,” she says aloud, and bows to them, makes her excuses of checking on her people, on the castle’s stores, and despite Legolas’ protests Thranduil waves her away, almost fully turned towards his plate now.

Tauriel does her very best not to run.

*

Fili:

“It’s not so bad,” Gimli tries.  When they all turn, as one, to stare at him, it takes him a moment to notice, and he turns red, contrasting horribly with his beard.  “What?  Someone’s got to be positive.”

“Aye, and it’s not normally _you_ ,” Bofur points out.

Whatever Gimli says next, Fili ignores, turning back to the castle Kili’s trail has led them to.  His grip on the bush they peer through is so tight, there are thorns digging into his palm.  “We need a plan.  A good one,” he adds, just in case.

“They’ll have a well,” Bifur puts in, but Sigrid’s shaking her head before Fili even has to.

“Takes too long,” she says, and Bifur nods.  “I know it sounds obvious, but what about a cart?  You can all hide inside, I’ll drive us in – ”

“We don’t have a horse,” Fili points out.

“Or a cart.”

“Or any idea where we’re going once we get in.”

“I saw a drain on the western side – ”

“Same problem as the well.”

“Don’t suppose just taking a run at ’em – ”

“He said _good_ plan, you trying to get us all killed?”

“ _You_ , maybe.”

Sigrid bites her lip; when Fili catches her eye, she grins at him.  She looks _tired_ , dark smudges under her eyes where the rest of her face is pale, but she is still bright, still smiling at him, despite all the miles and the mud and the way he’s spent near every night tossing and turning by her side, and oh, Fili _loves_ her.  He doesn’t deserve her, not after all of this, but she takes his hand and squeezes, and Fili knows he’s too selfish to let her go.

He squeezes back and is about to cut the arguing short, find a way to make them all _think_ when a voice behind them says, in heavily accented Norse, “Or I let you in.”

Fili shoves Sigrid behind him without thinking about it, on his feet and a knife (one of his lighter, better throwing knives) in his hand before his thoughts catch up with him.  He’s not the only one, nor would he expect to be – the others stand at his side, at his back, Bofur and Bifur trying to edge their way between him and this new threat the way he’s seen Dwalin do for his uncle, the way he’s done with Sigrid, who has her own sword drawn and a look of death upon her face.

The woman in front of them looks almost amused – and is a perfect match for the description of the redheaded, green-cloaked woman his brother was last seen chasing, who was seen hauling Kili off the road back in Foxley Woods.  Fili bares his teeth and _snarls_.  “ _You._   Where’s my brother?”

The woman focuses on him immediately.  “You are Fili?”

“What of it?” Bofur demands, but Fili nods, ready to ask again, and again, and as many times as he needs to.

The relief that crosses her face is fleeting and stark.  “Thank fuck,” she says in Cymraeg, and before Fili can do more than almost drop his knife, continues, “The Norse Kili taught me would never have been enough for this conversation.”

“Kili taught you Norse?” Fili repeats, dumb; behind him, Sigrid makes a shaky, breathy noise.

“Only a little,” she nods.  “I’m sorry, there’s not much time.  I took him – ”

“We know,” Sigrid says, as dark as he’s ever heard anything come out of her mouth, and even those who don’t know Cymraeg look at her shocked.  Fili keeps his eyes on the woman who just admitted to stealing his brother.

“Because I thought he would hurt me,” she finishes.  “I wanted to kill him, and I’m – I’m so glad I didn’t.”  Fili swallows, and she meets his eyes.  “I can get him out,” she says.  “But I need your help.”

*

The woman’s name is Tauriel, and her plan is…simple.

“There’s a lot of room for something to go wrong,” Fili says.  He feels old, kneeling in the dirt over the map Tauriel has sketched them of her castle, while Gimli and the others go off to play their silent parts.  Her king’s castle.

Tauriel doesn’t argue with him – doesn’t say anything, actually, staring down at her map.  It’s Sigrid who tells him, “Think of it as room to adapt to change,” as she takes down her hair, runs her fingers through wave upon shining wave, and it takes Fili’s breath.  He’s never seen her with her hair undone.

And now she does it to rescue his brother from the belly of the beast.

Tauriel pushes to her feet suddenly, moves towards Sigrid, and Fili has to stop himself from going for a weapon again.  He watches Sigrid’s spine lock as Tauriel reaches out to her hair.  “May I?” Tauriel eventually asks, and it takes a moment where Sigrid holds her gaze, that steel back in her eyes, before she nods, slow.  Tauriel is just as slow when she tucks Sigrid’s final braid, bound in Fili’s beads, behind her ear.

*

Tauriel:

“Ti'n siarad Cymraeg?” she asks as they walk; something vague and undetermined aches in her chest at the words, and if she closes her eyes, Tauriel can see Kili’s face, grinning at her upside down on a muddy hill in East Anglia.

The girl, Sigrid, lifts her pointed chin.  “A little.”

“Is this the same kind of little that Kili speaks?”

Something like a laugh huffs out of her, the beginning of a smile curling her mouth.  “I’d hope I’m better than _Kili_ ,” she says.  With Tauriel’s cloak covering the northern weave of her clothes, her sword and the bow on her back, her hair loose around her shoulders, she looks like nothing else than any other young girl at Thranduil’s court, and they pass through the gate without question.  Tauriel nods at the guards when they salute, and the almost-smile leaves Sigrid’s face as she falls silent again.

“I tracked you,” she finally bursts out with as they approach the tower.  Tauriel does not lose her footing to a hole in the street, caused by too many carts and too much rain, but it is a close thing, and she could not say if it was surprise that she has finally chosen to speak again, or at _what_ she has said.

She goes with the second.  “ _You_ did?”

The look Sigrid sends her could cut through bone and not leave a mark.  “My family were hunters, before Da became jarl.”

Tauriel does not know this word, though Kili used it in reference to his uncle, and once, his brother.  But she catches Sigrid’s elbow, because, “You misunderstand, I – there are trained members of our guard who could not have followed me.  I am…beyond impressed.”

The blush that rises to Sigrid’s skin is bright red under her paleness, washing over her face and down her throat.  “I told you, we were hunters.  But you – you had to cover yourself!  I’ve never seen anyone able to do that when – ”  Her mouth twists, her eyes rising to the heavens as though searching for something.  “When they have someone else,” she settles on.  “Except my grandma, but they said she was favoured by Skaði – ”

“But you were in a foreign land!”  Tauriel takes a breath, makes it slow.  It is a rarity she can discuss such things with anyone other than Legolas.  “It would please me greatly to continue this,” she tells Sigrid, low, “but we have arrived.”  Sigrid looks up, startled, because they already stand in the tower’s shadow, the doors mere steps away.  Then her mouth firms and she nods, adjusting the hood over her hair.  Tauriel reprimands herself for not noticing the way she holds herself before now – like a warrior, poised to move, to act.  To defend.

Tauriel forces herself to take another breath, and pushes open the door.

The biggest risk in her plan, she had confessed to them all, is that it’s always difficult to move around when Thranduil is in residence, never mind when he has someone he wants to keep an eye on.  But they are able to move with relative ease towards the dungeon stairs; most people hurry by, sure Tauriel has more important things to do than discuss whatever troubles them.  It is an attitude she had been working hard to correct.

The guards they come across are either at their posts, approved with a sharp nod from her and apparently barely acknowledged by Sigrid (but now she knows, Tauriel thinks, and doesn’t doubt that Sigrid is taking note of every person they encounter, every blade at a guard’s belt), or lounging slightly too far away, talking to a pretty serving girl, if not more.  A glare from Tauriel sends them both back to their places with a whimper, and she and Sigrid carry on.

“Would it not have been easier to let them be?” Sigrid murmurs.  Tauriel shakes her head.

“Too remarkable,” she says.  There’s another one of those huffed sounds, but when Tauriel glances her way, Sigrid still has her head held high, the kind of haughty disinterest on her face that have people assume a royal family member, without ever realising her hair is too dark.

The only issue they encounter, really, is one Tauriel expected:  the look the man on the door to the staircase darts between them when she tells him, “You’re relieved.”

“With all due respect,” he starts.  His shift isn’t due to finish till evening meal, Tauriel knows, and heads him off with a pointed tilt of her head toward Sigrid.  Sigrid, who is deliberately facing away while she waits.  “King’s orders,” she says.

He hesitates again, but then he bows and disappears out towards the village, to where he probably has a loved one who will be delighted to see him home early.

“Come on,” Sigrid whispers, hurried, already pulling at the door, and Tauriel makes sure to close it behind them before they descend.

Kili is being kept in the deepest cell of the dungeon, because Thranduil is nothing if not true to his word.  It takes longer than Tauriel would like for them to navigate the steps down, down in the dark, with only one torch between them.  Kili, of course, has to give them a welcome.

“What d’you want to know this time?” he calls in Norse, when the light of their torch must be no more than a glimmer through the bars on his door.  “Do we really eat _breski_ babies?  Sacrifice all your livestock to our gods?  Sure, why not, I love a good sacrifice.”

“You really are the most dramatic,” Sigrid says, still in their own language as she reaches the bottom step.  There’s a very definite, wondering pause, and then –

“Sigrid?”  Kili’s voice is full of wonder, and no small amount of fear, so Tauriel passes Sigird the key and holds the torch higher for her to see by.  The next moment, the cell door is open and Kili has Sigrid in his arms, spinning her in the tight space.  “How did you even – where’s Fili, is he – did you – ?”

“He’s outside,” Sigrid laughs, pressing her face to Kili’s hair, and Tauriel has to look away.  “We have to hurry though – which means you’ll have to _put me down_ , honestly, Kee – ”

“Tauriel?”

It’s instinct to look, to lift her head and meet his eyes, watch the smile grow to cover his whole face as he sets Sigrid on her feet, and Tauriel can feel it call a smile of her own from somewhere in her chest.  “I’m going to have to tie you up again,” she warns in Cymraeg.

Kili’s smile never dims, enough to light up the entire dungeon.  “That’s okay.  Getting used to it.”

*

Kili:

“So this plan you lot have,” he mutters, best he can face down across a horse’s back as it moves.  Very, very carefully, Sigrid kicks him from her own mount, hisses a “shh!” at him.  He’s not sure, given he has his eyes closed and is pretending to be unconscious again – he really is getting used to this – but he thinks Tauriel might be laughing.  The air has that quality to it.

He's about to comment, when someone says, “Isn’t that the _diafol du_?” in Cymraeg so fast, he can barely catch it, and Tauriel halts where she leads his and the other horse.

The ice is back in her voice when she says, “King’s orders.  He’s to be made an example of.” A pause – a gesture? – and, “The lady was happy to assist.”

The other person laughs, slaps Kili’s leg in a way that _stings_ , that he has to grit his teeth and hold himself stiff against.  “Good riddance to him,” they say, spitting (charming, some people), and then they’re moving again, Tauriel murmuring just loud enough to hear, “Don’t say anything.”  Kili’s got to admit, he wasn’t really planning on it again.

“Nearly there,” Sigrid says under her breath, eventually, after Kili’s sure he’s going to have indents from the horse’s spine and he’s lost all feeling in his arms again.  “Nearly there, nearly there, just a little longer, Kili, we’re almost there – ”

_“Kili!”_

“So much for subtly,” he manages, shoving himself up on his dead arms, and then he’s being pulled down off the horse and for a moment his legs won’t hold, but that doesn’t matter, nothing really _matters_ because that’s Fili, Fili’s got him, holding him up with a hand on the back of his neck, the other on his shoulder, their foreheads pressed together and Kili can’t breathe, can’t open his eyes because if he does then he’s going to be back in that black little cell with no one coming to get him, never to see any of them again, not Fili, not his mam or Thorin or feel the sea air on his face or shoot, none of it, ever again –

Fili tightens his grip at Kili’s neck, says again, “Kili,” and Kili’s breath rushes out of him in something that sounds too close to a sob for comfort.

Then his hands are free, and it’s Ori with his arms around him, Gimli, Bifur and Bofur as one, Sigrid again, Fili, Fili and Sigrid, and Kili might be laughing, he can’t help it, and it hurts, his belly hurts with it, but he can’t stop –

“I’m sorry,” Tauriel says in Norse, and when Kili turns, legs wobbling, her face is pale, drawn, her bottom lip red like she’s been chewing on it again.  “I’m sorry, but.  We must leave.”

“Give us a moment, yeah?” Gimli growls, but now Sigrid’s shaking her head, wiping at her eyes and stepping back.

“No, she’s – she’s right, we have to go, they’ll realise soon enough.”  She looks up at them, and something about her face makes their backs straighten, drawn to attention in a way his uncle would love to see, even Fili.  “Two to a horse, on you go.”  She gives Kili a pointed look before undoing her cloak and handing it to Tauriel, giving Fili enough time to mount the horse she rode earlier before she climbs up behind him.

Kili looks at Tauriel again, who is deliberately _not_ looking at him as she fastens her cloak.  “Guess I’m with you again,” he says – he means it, the cheer in his voice, the way something in his chest swoops happily at the thought, and she must know, she must, because she looks up, another one of those small smiles starting –

That bloody horn sounds in the distance.

*

_Norway, the very edge of Durin land_

Dis has long ago lost track of the number she’s killed, and even longer since she had sight of her brother or cousins.  She is covered in blood not her own, her arms scream with every move, every time she shifts her axe, her shield, and still she cannot stop.  She has fought longer, harder, against more vicious opponents; she can do this until she finds Thorin again.

Another one of Smaug’s men come at her with sword raised, leaving her a wide opening she cuts through before he finishes his cry.  There are, she’s pleased to note (if somewhat distantly), more of their bodies littering the ground than those with their faces marked in Thorin’s blue, but it is still a depressingly large number.  There will be more families to scream when they return, more children without parents and instead vengeance in their hearts.  And she is _tired_ of it, Dis decides as she ducks another attack, takes him out with a blow from her shield.

There will be another pleasant meadow in years to come, full of wildflowers and uneven ground.

She blames this thought for the fact that Smaug is able to knock her legs from under her, pin her much like Dwalin had him earlier, sword to the soft of her throat.  “No guard for you now, princess?” he says, silky in the midst of battle, and Dis risks slitting her own throat as she kicks him, throwing her head back just in time and receiving a jolt from a discarded helmet before she pushes herself to her feet.  Smaug only laughs, rubbing at his side.  “I always knew you had bite.”

“Bastard,” Dis spits, and launches herself forward.  Smaug barely has his shield in place before she crashes into him.

Smaug is no warrior, relying on his height, his strength as opposed to any true skill, but he is fresher to the fight than Dis (probably sat waiting in his tent until their numbers had lessened, she thinks bitterly, and pays for it with a crack to her arm).  It takes less time than she would ever like to admit for her to lose her shield, for Smaug to knock loose her axe and once again be standing over her while she glares up at him.  Her entire being aches, but especially her shieldarm – she can’t even close her fist, and her ankle screamed at her just before she toppled.

Smaug tsks at her.  “I thought you a better shieldmaiden than that.”

“Come closer and find out,” she says, lifting her chin, and he laughs at her, the bastard, the _worm_.

“With what shield?” he asks, looking pointedly in the direction he sent her shield flying.  Dis doesn’t follow his gaze, doesn’t take her eyes off him, and there’s that sharpness again.  “Do you know who I am, Dis Thrainsdatter?” he says, almost casually, as if there weren’t people dying around them, bodies on all sides and something hot dripping down Dis’ leg.

“Do I care?”

He laughs again, but comes closer, so Dis grits her teeth and holds his eyes.  “Your brother knew.” Smaug says, and she almost abandons everything.  “As I stood over him much the way I do with you now, as I watched the life drain from his body and the light leave his eyes.”  He moves closer, right above her now, legs on either side of hers, and Dis tries to figure if she has time to kick him and –

“Frerin always was the clever one,” she forces out between her teeth, anything, anything to get him _closer_ ; this time when he laughs, he drops to his knees, surrounds her with hands on either side of her head.

“He knew me then, as you will know me,” he says, low enough that she can hear him over the din of battle, over renewed screaming – someone has found their second wind, she thinks.  “I am death,” Smaug says, grand, arrogant as he leans over her in the mud; if she knees him –

An iron spearhead bursts through Smaug’s side, spraying Dis with blood; she closes her eyes just in time, though it means she misses the face Smaug pulls as he roars with pain.

“Has anyone ever told you,” Bard says from over Smaug’s shoulder, “that you talk too much?”

Smaug rises up on his knees, rage twisting his face, and in a moment, Dis has the knife from his belt and cuts open his throat.

She is _drenched_ in blood now, and even Bard has managed to get some, thanks to Smaug’s thrashing while he grasps at the gaping hole in his neck, hands slipping, sliding across his skin.  It should be over quickly, but still he watches her as she hauls herself to her feet, and Dis spits at him.  “Frerin might have been the clever sibling,” she says, teeth bared, “but we are the vindictive ones.”

Bard waits until Smaug’s eyes dim before offering her his arm.  “My lady Dis.”

“Nice of you to show up,” she grumbles, but she takes hold anyway.  Her ankle won’t take much more weight, after all.  Looking out beyond what has become a quiet patch, she can see those in Bard’s red bolster their own people, drive Smaug’s forces further, further.  It should help, should make her feel more than _hollow_ – but Frerin is still dead, her grandfather, her parents, and she can’t see Thorin anywhere she looks.

Bard nods, conceding the point.  “I had a lot to think over.”

“Glad you got there eventually.  Help me over there,” she adds, pointing, and Bard does before even questioning.  “I want my axe, and I want that bastard’s head.”

*

_The Kingdom of Gwent, on the road to the Mercian border_

Kili:

Tauriel, as it turns out, is a very skilled rider.  Which is good, because Thranduil’s little band are _fast_.

An arrow slams into a tree by Kili’s head as they pass, and Ori yelps as another comes too close to his and Gimli’s horse.  Sigrid’s angered noise is audible even over the wind in his ears.  “I’ve had enough of this,” she yells, and it’s not clear if she means it for him, for Fili or Tauriel, but somehow she twists herself into position, bow in hand and arrow already knocked.  When it flies, Kili can hear the scream as it hits some kind of mark.

Whoever Sigrid took down though, it wasn’t the archer, as another arrow comes for them, and Tauriel guides their horse through a large swerve, the others following her.  Sigrid curses, lets loose another shot after a moment’s aim.

“Is that my bow?” Kili calls; she lets another arrow go in response.

“You can have it back when I’m done saving our lives!”

“Fair,” he grumbles, tightening his arms around Tauriel’s waist.  He swears he hears her laugh, but then the horn sounds again, _closer_ , and she urges the horse harder, faster, until all Kili can so is hold on.  He hears her name called, and again, and he’s about to demand his bow back just so he can deal with the bastard when Tauriel swears, pulling their horse up short enough that it almost rears.

“What’re you doing?” Fili snaps, trying to calm their own horse; it’s Ori who says, “There’s two in front of us,” low, and this time Fili curses.

“Whatever happens,” Tauriel says, soft into his ear, “stay on the horse.”  Her voice, the lushness of the Cymraeg, her breath on his skin – her mouth, so close to his – for a moment Kili is so completely and utterly distracted, her words don’t penetrate his mind even slightly.

“Wait, what – ”

Thranduil’s people come through the trees, two from the front just like Ori said, and three from behind, Legolas at their head, and Kili feels the frown pull at his face before he’s even conscious of it.  “Tauriel,” Legolas says again, dismounting and completely ignoring Kili’s glare.”What are you doing?”

“I made a mistake,” she tells him, and with a final squeeze to Kili’s hand she slips from his grip, on the ground to face her prince, and Kili can’t even manage her name.  He notices, somewhat distantly, the arrow Sigrid keeps knocked, the way Fili moves their horse to keep both Legolas and the two who cut them off in his sight.  “They just want to go home, Legolas.”

“Is that what he told you?”  Legolas jerks his chin at Kili, who has to swallow the urge to make gestures of his own, tightening his hands around the reins.  “It’s all lies, Tauriel, can’t you see?  The moment they’re out of our sight, beyond the border – ”

“Since when did your father ever care about anything beyond our borders?” Tauriel interrupts, with the tone of one who has said much similar many a time.

“I can fix this,” Legolas says, almost urgent, desperate.  “But you need to come back with me, bring him and the horses back.  I can talk to my father, but if you continue this, you can never return.  You know that.  He will only see the most ultimate betrayal.”

No one speaks for what feels like an age.  Even the birds, the animals rustling in the undergrowth fall silence, until it seems like their breath could be louder than Thor’s thunder.

Until Tauriel says, “Then I do not return,” and the very air is punched from Kili’s lungs.

Before anyone can do anything else, Legolas has hold of her arm, pulling her further from their little circle – Kili almost moves, Sigrid with him, but the other _breski_ shift their grips on weapons – sword, bow, even a pair of knives - purposely, and Tauriel shoots them a look over Legolas’ shoulder, shakes her head deliberately.  Kili consoles himself with the fact that Sigrid looks as happy as he feels.

“You would leave your people, your home, for them?” Legolas hisses, loud enough that they can hear him.  What does it matter how loud you are, when your audience supposedly doesn’t understand what you say.  “Is it worth it?”

Tauriel looks at him, her shock, her _disappointment_ clear across her face in the wide of her eyes, the tilt of her head.  “When has doing the right thing ever had to be _worth_ something?”

“They’ll go right back to their raiding and pillaging the moment they’re within sight of the sea again,” Legolas insists.  “They take you and anyone else who catches their eye as slaves, Tauriel, you can’t trust a word out of their mouths – ” and oh, Kili’s had _more_ than enough now.

“Actually, we haven’t done any of that since Grandda’s time,” he says, loud as _he_ likes in Cymraeg, and it’s definitely worth giving up that secret to watch Legolas spin round, the horror wash across his face as his people lower their weapons, suddenly unsure.  “Not our uncle’s thing.  Can’t speak for everyone, mind, but he’s much more into trading, learning, that sort of thing.”  Kili shrugs, like it barely matters, and Tauriel smiles at him behind Legolas’ back, bright and small.  _Definitely_ worth it, Kili decides, that warmth bubbling back up in his belly, his chest, until he feels almost fit to burst.

Legolas attempts a sneer.  “Clearly a reputable ruler, with such standards.”

“Watch your mouth,” Gimli says, his accent still so much better than Kili’s ever managed.  “That’s my cousin you’re talking about.”

With his people looking to him now, confusion and no small amount of fear coming off them in waves, Legolas closes his eyes.  “Does every _dieifyl du_ speak Cymraeg now?”

“Only most of us.”  It’s clearly Fili’s turn now, using what Kili likes to call the Thorin voice, firm with a barest hint of threat on the edges.  “We’d quite like to get back to our own home though, where we needn’t offend either of our ears.”

Legolas mutters something Kili can’t make out, looking pained; whatever it is, Tauriel reaches out, touches his arm.  “I made a mistake, _mellon_ ,” she says again.  “Let me make it right.”

“He’ll never forgive you,” Legolas says, gripping her hand like that alone could make her change her mind.

Her, “I’d never forgive myself,” is so soft, it may only be luck of the wind by Njörðr’s hand that Kili hears it at all.  However it happens, he is thankful, because eventually Legolas nods, swallows and lets go of her, stepping away immediately.  “We’re leaving,” he tells his people – it possibly says something about his leadership that no one questions him, not even with the spectre of Thranduil’s name hanging over them all – and glares at Kili all the way back to his horse.

Tauriel does not watch them go, but wipes at her cheeks more than once before they are out of sight.

Gimli, though, sighs, his and Ori’s horse shifting at the sound.  “Shame, though,” he says as Tauriel rejoins them, climbs back up in front of Kili, still in Cymraeg, as if he enjoys the feel of the words again.  “She was a pretty one.”

Tauriel’s spine stiffens immediately.  Kili, halfway through putting his arms back round her waist, feels his stomach plummet.  “Legolas,” she says, ice back in her voice, cracking along every cadence of his name, “is our prince, and his father’s heir.”

Kili can see the look Sigrid and Fili share, the way Ori closes his eyes in despair.  Gimli – Gimli shrugs.  “Still pretty.”  And Bofur, breaking what is possibly the longest silence of his _life_ , says, “Oh for fuck’s sake, _stop talking_ ,” while Bifur throws something, judging by Gimli’s yelp.

Tauriel spurs their horse into a gallop almost immediately, too quick for Kili to catch his breath, for the others to do more than scrabble to keep up.  For him to say something.

Tell her _thank you_.

*

_Norway, the very edge of Durin land_

It’s amazing how many men will run when they see their lord’s head hanging from her belt, whole swathes of them disappearing over the hills as one.  But not the one she wants to see go.

Dwalin clambers over bodies to reach them, fear writ clear on his face; Dis does not let go of Bard’s arm to fall into his, but it is a close thing, and only because she locks her knees, no matter how her ankle screams at her.  “Where’s Thorin?” she demands, before Dwalin has even made it to her side.

Gloin, mere steps behind him and supporting Balin much the way Bard supports her, jerks a thumb over his shoulder, back the way they came.  “Last we saw, the two of them were going at it by the river.”

“Shit,” Dis curses.  Then she doesn’t need Bard’s arm, doesn’t need anyone, practically flying towards the ridge of the hill.  The pain is gone, replaced entirely by a empty, chilling panic, and no, she thinks as she stumbles, pulls herself back to her feet with her bad arm, ignoring the shouts of her name behind her.  Because no, _no_ , he is not allowed to do this.  Fili is not ready to sit as jarl, their people not ready, not after so much unrest –

She is not ready.

She finds him by the water’s edge, sitting on a rock with his boots in the mud and blood dripping down his side, watching the river as if it held all the answers he’s ever sought.  There is no sign of Bolg.

“Thorin,” Dis says – means it to be a shout, a curse, but it barely scrapes out of her mouth, and she drops to her knees beside his rock, sliding in the mud.  “Thorin,” she tries again, and it is – better.  “Where is Bolg?”

Her brother points somewhere in the middle distance.  “Out in the river,” he says, and something eases around Dis’ chest.

“What have you done to yourself?”

Thorin glances down, and seems surprised at the blood.  “Just a flesh wound,” he says eventually, blinking.  There’s more blood on his face, in his beard, his hair, bruising already blooming purple where the woad has worn away, including under both eyes.  He smiles at her, tentative and bright, so much like his old smiles that Dis could weep.  “It’s nothing,” he adds, reaching up to smooth a filthy hand over her hair.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Dis mutters, already pulling at his tunic, pushing at his arm and testing its reach.  Thorin bears her ministrations with an almost disturbing calm, until Dis presses her fingers to his side and realises, yes, just a flesh wound.  “A lot of blood for a flesh wound,” she manages around the tears sprung sudden.  He only keeps smiling at her, and Dis has to lower her head, press he face to his knee as everything comes flooding back, every ache and pain and scrape and the slow pulse of warning in her leg, that she had better bind it soon or face the consequences.  And still she can barely bring herself to care, her breath shaking, heaving.

This time, when Thorin touches her hair, she wraps her hand around his wrist and holds him there.

“You two are a bloody pain in my arse,” Dwalin says, sudden, breathless, and it should be jarring, an interruption, but instead the tears finally slip from beneath Dis’ lashes, hot on her cheek and soaking through Thorin’s trousers.

He says nothing, although she images he gestures rather _imaginatively_ at Dwalin, until – “Is that Smaug’s _head_?” Thorin asks, as if he doesn’t know whether to be aghast or proud, and Dis – Dis _laughs_.

*

_The Kingdom of Mercia, on the journey to the Kingdom of East Anglia_

“We need to decide what we’re going to do,” Fili says to him two nights later, low while they pass a skin back and forth.  Kili grunts and keeps watching Tauriel and Sigrid on the other side of the fire.  Fili sighs, knocks his shoulder.  “I know you don’t want to, but – gotta be done, Kee.”

“M’not abandoning her.”  He’s not had anywhere near enough to be slurring his words, but it’s been a hell of a week.  He swears he’s only just got all the feeling back in his fingers.

His brother rolls his eyes.  “No one’s talking about abandoning her.  But you know how Thorin feels about it, and Mam’s not going to be too happy either.”

“She gave up her home and her people to help us,” Kili protests.  The skin dangles loose in his hand, and Fili makes no attempt to get it back.  “Because it was the _right thing_.  She could’ve walked away, could’ve gone back with ’em, with bloody _Legolas_ – ”

“Oh no,” Fili says, like realisation dawning.  “Kili, no.”

Kili ignores him.  “She’s here walking through land where they _hate_ her, leading us so we can get back to the coast safe, get back home.  She trusted me, kept me safe – she _rescued_ me, sought you out and walked me right back out under Thranduil’s nose.  She’s learning our language, and she fights like a Valkyrie, like she was guided by the hand of Freyja herself.”  Fili says nothing, Kili lets the silence hang between them, long enough for the fire to begin to pop, and Tauriel laughs at whatever Sigrid has told her.  It’s the first time he’s seen her smile since Legolas turned and left.  “I’m not leaving her alone.”

Fili leaves another moment between them before he says, “You’ve really fallen for her.”  It’s not a question, so Kili doesn’t treat it as one.

Instead, he watches the light play with the ends of her hair, turning it brighter than any flame as her hands move, fluid in their emphasis.  “I look at her and I see starlight,” he tells his brother.  There’s never been any point in trying to lie to Fili anyway.  “I always have.”  He turns his head to find Fili watching him, face shadowed and serious enough be their uncle, and Kili can’t say if it’s the ale or the exhaustion, whichever one bows his shoulders until he can barely stay upright, but he can feel his mouth curve, loose and happy.  He hopes it’s happy.  “It’s not like you and Sigrid, Fee, or Mam and Da.  I just.  I saw her and I knew.  Here.”  The ale splashes against his tunic when he brings his hands up to his chest, and Fili sighs, takes the skin back from him.

“We’ll figure something out,” he says, before taking a long, long drink.

*

Fili:

Sigrid is disturbingly unsurprised.  “Of course they are,” she whispers back, late that night once everyone else sleeps, and Fili has spilled his brother’s secrets to her.  His brother, currently snoring his head off louder than any of them from where he’s lain his bedroll.  Beside Tauriel.  As he has each night so far.  They are not as close as he lies with Sigrid now, sharing the same blankets, Sigrid’s fingers and legs tangled with his, but they are not far from it either –

And then the full force of Sigrid’s words hit him.  _“They?”_ Fili splutters, and at least one of the snores around them stutter.  Sigrid rolls her eyes at him, a laugh tucked silent in the corners of her mouth, until all regular rhythms are resumed.

“Yes, _they_ ,” she says, a lot quieter than he managed.  “If you’d seen her face in that dungeon…you wouldn’t doubt.”

“I don’t doubt,” he says, smoothing his free hand over her hair, over the braids she rewove once the _breski_ band had let them be.  “It does make some things simpler.”

“And others more difficult,” she agrees, pressing a kiss to their entwined fingers.

*

Kili:

Even with his daring rescue (“Please stop calling it that,” Gimli begs) and her disavowal of her king, aside from Sigrid, the others still don’t trust Tauriel, keeping a wary distance almost constantly.  Even Fili, though he does drop back to speak with her on more than one occasion, reminding Kili so much of Thorin that he has to say something to Sigrid, who only grins at him.

Kili understands it, though it makes angry heat warm in his gut when he sees her alone at the very end of their party.  He makes it a point to walk with her when Sigrid doesn’t (and Sigrid, thank all the gods above, does so regularly, but she also has a betrothed to spend time with), to place his bedroll next to hers at night, no matter how many looks she and the others give him for it.

He takes it as something of a personal challenge to draw out that small smile at least once a mile.

They rest the horses most days, walking them riderless, and Tauriel has deliberately kept hers between them on the day she says, “You will look forward to going home.”  The hesitancy doesn’t just come from her Norse, Kili thinks.

He rubs his neck, squints up at the sky, because they haven’t quite worked it out yet, him and Fili, but he knows already what he’s going to do.  Or not, in this case.  “I’m uh.  I’m not going home with the others.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”  His mouth tugs, he can’t help it.  Wouldn’t want to.  “I’m staying with you.”

Tauriel halts, her horse snorting in disapproval, and her hand is instantly, unthinkingly at its neck, apology and calm in one, while she stares at Kili over its nose.  She looks – almost panicked, actually.  “With me?” she repeats, back in Cymraeg.  “But – your mother, your promise – ”

“I’m not staying away forever,” Kili hastens to add, because the very idea of it curdles something in his belly, makes a panic of his own rise in his throat, tasting distinctly of damp, of never-ending darkness.  “Just enough for them to come round to the idea.  But you – you gave up your people for us.  For me,” he says, because he _wants_ it to be true, but the way she ducks her head as if to hide the blush rising to her cheeks clears away the last of that foul taste.  “I’m not leaving you alone.”

“You needn’t,” she says, though her voice shakes.  “I am perfectly capable – ”

“That’s not the point and you know it,” though he keeps his voice soft.  He always knew this would take some talking.  He’s careful in his step, giving her time to back away should she want, but she allows him to approach her, to cover her hand on the horse’s neck.  “Tauriel,” he says, and her eyes jerk to his, wide and full of so many different things he thinks he would need a lifetime to count them all.  And sweet Freyja, but he wants that time.  “You saved me.”

“It was my fault you were there in the first place,” she says, barely above a breath, watching him like – like he has seen Dwalin watch his mother when he thinks no one is looking.

“Bullshit,” he says, and it startles a laugh out of her, breathy and near silent.

“Kili – ”

“I don’t want to leave you.  I’ll go, if you want me to, but – ” Her skin is warm under his, soft between the various scrapes and scratches of the journey and he wants, he _wants_.  “But I don’t think you do.”

Tauriel takes a deep, shaking breath, and for a moment Kili’s hope, so thick he can taste it, feel it in his bones, falters.  Then she says, “I don’t,” and kisses him.

At first – at first it is only a press of lips, both dry and catching, and it shakes Kili to his core.  Then Tauriel makes a noise and opens her mouth, pulls him close, and his hands are finally, finally in her hair, winding their way through the length of it and relishing in the feel, the slide of silk over his knuckles as she nips at his mouth, her own warm and wet and Kili could die from this, from the feel of her calluses catching on his beard, her fingers tight in the hair at his nape and her hips against him.  He says her name into her mouth, means it as a prayer and a blessing, an offering to the gods who have let him have this, let him be worthy of this moment, of _her_ –

“When you two are quite bloody finished!” Bofur yells from far, far away, and Kili would ignore him but Tauriel pulls back, only enough to end the kiss, and she still drops another on his lips in apology before she retreats.  Her mouth is swollen, wet and red enough to match the flush across her skin, drowning her freckles as she stares at him, all the green in her eyes near swallowed by a black that shines like the night sky, and fuck Bofur, fuck the horse shifting uneasily at their side, fuck all of them, Kili _wants_.

“This will not be easy,” Tauriel warns, her hands sliding to cup his jaw (like his face is something she wants to memorise, like something _precious_ ) with a quick look over his shoulder at where everyone else is probably watching them.  Kili feels as though he swallowed the sun (and he would do it, he thinks, he would end the world for her), can’t keep it in, beaming at her.

“Nothing worth it ever is,” he says, and when Tauriel smiles, big and open and _happy_ , he feels it light up his soul.

*

“Where will we even go?” she murmurs that night, still playing with his hair on the edge of sleep.  (It feels right again to be so close to her, to her heat and her scent, to remove the distance of the last few nights.)  Kili rubs at her hipbone where his hand rests on her (unfortunately fully clothed) side under the blankets, making her smile even as her eyes fall closed.

“Our cousin Dain has land up in Norðreyjar, I reckon he’d take us in,” he muses.  When she cracks open an eye to give him a pointed look, it’s his turn for his face to heat.  “His da went raiding and fell for a local girl, decided to settle down.  Dain doesn’t hold with raiding much either,” he adds.

“Sounds familiar,” Tauriel says, snuggling deeper into the blanket.  Kili hums.

“Our story’s so much better though.  Fierce battles and tragic misunderstandings, a clever, dashing hero – ” she snorts “ – and the bravest, deadliest, most beautiful warrior the world has seen…we have it all, _amrâlimê_.”

“I don’t know what that means,” she says softly, as if she already was mostly asleep, but both her eyes are open now, watching him, and Kili doesn’t think he’s ever going to stop smiling. 

“I’ll teach you.”

*

Fili:

“You were right,” he says, sleepy and thick into the back of Sigrid’s neck, pressing a kiss to the first bump of her spine.

Her laugh is more a huff of air, almost asleep herself.  “Of course I was.”

*

Kili:

“Dain?” Fili repeats the next morning, frowning at him.  Kili shrugs.

“Is there a better idea?”

“No,” Fili agrees, and the frown’s not so much directed at Kili now but somewhere in the distance, like he’s thinking it out.  “It’s a hell of a long way to Norðreyjar from East Anglia, though.”

“Maybe you could give us a lift,” Kili says, grinning, and ducks when Fili makes to throw an apple at him.

*

He throws himself down next to her the next again evening, while Bifur and Bofur are arguing over the stewpot and Sigrid sits between Fili’s legs, his arms wrapped loose over her shoulders as she trounces Gimli at whatever game they’re playing, while Ori does whatever he does every night with his parchment.  Kili takes her hand and drops a kiss into her palm, because he can, because he wants to.  “Hello,” he says, like he didn’t just see her before they set up for the night.

“Do you care?” Tauriel asks, careful.  Since he told her about Norðreyjar, she’s been determined to practice her Norse, and now near every word is in his tongue.  “That they see?”

Kili can feel his smile growing, brightening, stretching his mouth and filling his cheeks.  “No,” he says, loud enough that the others can hear.  “I don’t care.”  Then he kisses her.

It’s a soft kiss, sweet, her face between his hands, but it’s enough for whistles from Gimli and Bofur, and when they part, Tauriel’s cheeks are pink.  This time, they’re both smiling.  “I don’t care,” Kili says again in Cymraeg, and watches her eyes light up.  “I _want_ them to see.  I want them to know I’m happy, _amrâlimê_.”

“Such sweet words,” Tauriel murmurs, tilting her head to nose at his jaw.  Kili feels his own cheeks flush to match hers, even as his belly heats.

“Just wait until we have a bed and a door to close,” he promises.  “I’ll give you sweet words.”

When she laughs, the whole forest comes alight.


End file.
